Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 ï>¿Anne-Droid by steelring

   Naked, silver body-paint, on-stage and in Leicester Square.

   "Mark wants me to be a robot," Anne said, while munching on her toast
and marmalade.

   "Okay," I answered, wondering just how she expected me to respond.

   "It's about a scientist who lives alone, but with a life-like robot he's
built," she added, sipping coffee.

   I took a sip of mine.

   "Sounds interesting," I said, half-heartedly.  The drama group that Anne
had joined puts on some pretty esoteric pieces.  Deeply meaningful crap.

   "It is," she said.  "It's an extended metaphor about relationships."

   "Just a two-hander?" I asked.

   "This time," she nodded.  "Mark's directing and playing the scientist
himself."

   I was not surprised.  I had met Mark, and would not trust him as far as
I could throw him.  He was the kind of guy who would be looking to get
inside of Anne's panties, and not just Anne.  Any female under forty in his
drama group.  Not that I was going to say that to her.  I liked that she
enjoyed amateur dramatics, even if it was not my thing.  She needed the
outlet.  My role, as her husband, was to feign interest, and give her all
the support a wife deserves.

   "Tough gig," I said.  "Carrying off a full length play.  Just the two of
you, I mean."

   "It's not full length," my wife said.  "It's a double bill this time. 
Two fifty-minute pieces.  The other is an office worker having a breakdown.
Mark felt the rest of the group should be working on something too.  He's
directing that as well."

   "So when are they playing?" I asked her.

   "In ten weeks' time," she said.  "Will you come?"

   "Of course," I said.  "You know I never miss any of the plays you're
in."

   "So you don't mind?" she asked.

   "Why would I mind?" I asked her in return, puzzled at the question.

   She looked at me, and shrugged.

   "I don't know," she said.  "But you're fine with it,..  and you'll come
and see it,..  yes..?"

   "Of course I'll come," I said.

   And that was that, or so I thought.

   **********

   "So how's it going," I asked Anne, after she had taken off her coat and
come and sat beside me on the sofa, while the television news was on.  Not
just sitting, nestling, close, my arm around her, the way we always do.

   "It's good," she said.  "Mark's organised a photo-shoot next week, to
get the posters printed.  It should be fun.  I'll be in body paint and
everything."

   Boris Johnson was saying something meaningless about how he was tackling
climate change.  It was all his usual bluster couched in Latin ad-libs and
lame jokes.  The guy was a walking lame joke.

   "Sounds good," I said, half listening, but more just pleased to have her
back beside me.  Her twice weekly rehearsals for the show were eating into
the time we like to spend together.

   I should have paid attention.

   **********

   I heard her in the hall before she came into the lounge, a little
sheepish, very self-conscious about the way she looked.

   "You drove back, like that?" I laughed.

   Every inch of skin above the neckline of her sweatshirt top, was silver.
Her forehead, nose, cheeks, jaw and chin, her ears and neck as well.  Only
her hair was untouched.  It was still its lustrous, natural blonde.  I
thought of the Tin Man, from Oz, but that was too unfair.  He was straw and
metal, clumsy and not great to look at.  Anne is blonde and striking,
although right then she had this silver sheen.

   "I thought I'd wait and take a shower here," she said, giving me her
apologetic half-smile.

   Which was when I took in her hands and wrists, as silver as her face.

   "I guess you'll need to," I said, "if they've sprayed your arms and legs
the way they've done your face.  How was it?"

   She joined me on the sofa, incongruous in her top and jeans, her shoes
left in the hall, her feet and ankles the same spray-silver, but she
snuggled close, as always, and felt as good as always too.

   "Nerve-wracking," she said.  "I mean, having to undress in front of
everyone, and then get sprayed, and then pose as a robot.  But I guess I
took the role, so I didn't have much choice."

   I laughed again.  There was something amusing about Anne having
committed herself, and then finding it that bit embarrassing at having to
change into her costume and get the parts of her that were still exposed,
spray painted.

   "You could have used the ladies as a changing room," I suggested.

   "Well, I could have," she said.  "But there would not have been much
point.  I still had to get sprayed all over."

   That got my attention.

   "You're serious?" I asked her.  "So what about the parts covered by your
costume?  What are you wearing anyway?  Some kind of leotard, or what?"

   Time stopped.  Then Anne turned her head to look up at me.

   "She's a female robot," she said.  "That's crucial to the role."

   "Okay," I said.  "And..?"

   "And Mark thought it would play better if I don't wear a costume," my
wife said.

   My stomach dropped.

   "Tell me you're not playing it naked," I said, already knowing the stark
truth.

   "Do you mind?" Anne asked me.

   "Do I have a choice?" I asked her.  "I'm assuming the photo-shoot is
done and dusted now, and there'll be pictures of you on the posters pretty
soon."

   She nodded.

   "With a skullcap, to hide my hair and give me a robotic head," she
added.

   "Makes sense," I said, trying in my head to make sense of what seemed a
bit extreme to me, especially for an amateur dramatics group who performed
in the local community centre.  The audience was bound to include some of
our friends and neighbours.

   But, cuddling Anne, I felt a nice sensation in my groin.  Her being
naked on the stage was proving a strange kind of a turn on.  Which confused
my head, since Anne being naked with other people was totally wrong. 
Unless it was an all girls' spa day.  Or a doctor's appointment.  Not in
front of two hundred people in our local community centre's hall.

   I was also thinking that, right then, hidden by just her sweatshirt and
jeans, my wife was silver, the same silver of her face and hands and feet.
Not just her legs and arms, but if she had been spray painted naked, than
her breasts were silver.  So would be her back, her waist, her butt, and
then I started wondering about her cunt.

   "You did wear a bikini bottom, didn't you?" I said.  "I mean, one of
those tie string things, or something?"

   "You mean a thong?" she said.

   "Okay," I said.  "I mean a thong."

   The terminology used for women's underwear was not exactly the point. 
The point was whether my wife now had a silver cunt.  My cock needed to
know.

   "No," Anne said, just like that.  "Mark wanted me exactly as I am.  My
character's a robot, but a female one, that his character has made, with
all the female attributes that any man would want."

   "So your pubic hair is painted silver?" I asked her.

   I tried to picture it.  Silver curls, where hers was naturally blonde.

   "Robots don't have pubic hair," my wife said, dead pan.

   Which made sense.  Which my cock responded to.  It was looking forward
to exploring the smooth silver feel that a robot would have between its
legs.  Which my head reacted to as well, but in a different way.  Naked is
one thing.  Shaved is yet another.

   "You've shaved?" I asked, unsure whether it was my cock, or my head,
putting the words into my mouth.  Curious, turned on, or shocked and
concerned, that my wife had exposed herself to this extent, just for some
dumb play.

   "I should have," Anne said.  "I should have realised before I left for
the photo-shoot.  Fortunately Mark realised I might not have done, and he
had brought a razor with him."

   My cock jumped, suddenly alert to its territory having been trespassed
upon.

   "So who shaved you?" I asked her, to be sure.

   "He did," she said, as if this was nothing more than the guy helping a
woman on with her coat.  "It seemed easier.

   "I bet it did," I said.

   So now I knew.  Underneath her sweatshirt and jeans, my wife was not
just painted silver, from neck to cunt, and right down to the soles of her
feet.  She was also shaved silvery smooth by a silken smooth, amateur
director, who clearly had no boundaries when it came to working with
another guy's wife.

   Thinking about this Mark, my thoughts were turning blue, swearwords and
blasphemies exploding in my brain.  Thoughts of what I would like to do to
the guy.  Thoughts of what I would like to do to Anne as well, for letting
him do something as seriously intimate with her, as shave her smooth.  Not
quite such violent thoughts about her, though.  She was, I knew, the naïve
innocent in this.  But just the same.  There is a level of naivety that
should be punished, and my cock was ready for the task.

   "Okay," I said," so show me, then."

   She turned her head and looked at me, her innocent, blue eyes coming
alight with the excitement of playing such a daring role.

   "I've got the skullcap home with me," she said.  "And my contacts."

   **********

   "Would,..  you,..  like,..  more,..  wine..?" Anne asked me.

   One word at a time.  Her face impassive.  Her eyes unblinking, although
they were trained on me.

   "You're kidding!" I laughed.  "That's how you have to speak?  The
answer's 'yes', by the way."

   She had left me on the sofa, and had changed upstairs, if that is how
you describe taking off a sweatshirt and jeans, putting on the silver,
bald-look skullcap, and inserting contact lenses in her eyes.  Back
downstairs, she had walked across to me from the lounge doorway, naked,
gleaming silver, back straight, limbs moving stiffly, head held erect,
though not quite as erect as my cock.

   The wine I had been drinking when she returned home from the photo-shoot
was on our coffee table, the glass in my hand dangerously close to being
empty.  Which is why the domestic robot standing by the coffee table was
asking me the question.  It was programmed to perfection.

   One thing I had to concede, my previous irritation with the whole robot
performance in the play having been replaced by curiosity as to just how
Anne would look when she came down.  The fact is that she looked
incredible.

   The silver skull cap, in particular, had sealed the transformation, from
human into automaton.  A very sexy automaton, with perfect breasts, slim
waist, smooth pubis, all shining silver, as were her legs and arms.

   "Fuck!" I said, "You look amazing!", while disbelieving just what I was
seeing.

   Her beautiful blonde hair was now tucked underneath the skullcap, which
itself was painted silver, like her face, and overlapped enough there
appeared to be no join.  She looked like any android you would see on
television, the contact lenses she had sais she had brought home, silver
where her eyes would have been white, and instead of soft blue irises,
there were just wide black holes into her computer brain.

   Androids, however, tend to be gender neutral.  Anne was far from that.
Instead of the robot flat chested look, with token nipples just to look the
part, my wife's breasts were, are, full, and no amount of silver
spray-paint could disguise her nipple stubs, or the more crinkled texture
of the wide areolas that surround them.

   Where androids tend to be slender, androgenous, Anne is most definitely
feminine.  Below average height for a woman, not quite petite but close,
her waist pleasantly narrow, her stomach flat, contrasting beautifully with
her full breasts and hips, she is close to hour-glass in body shape.  But
it was her pubis that got me seriously turned on.  The shaved look suited
her, at least the robot Anne, although one aspect of that look, if that was
how she would appear on stage, might not be quite what in keeping with the
robot role.

   I always knew that my wife's lips protrude.  Husbands know that kind of
thing.  I have been down there more than often enough, teasing her pubic
copse to either side and tonguing her.  Taking her all the way.  Opening
those labia as part of the process, to get closer access to her clit, and
delve deeper in her vaginal void.  Sucking on them too.  Teeth teasing
them. Masticating gently.  Driving her insane.

   But around the bedroom, her pubic hair disguised them, sheilding them
from view.  Shaved, the camouflage of pubic growth removed, her labia were
suddenly exposed, protruding noticeably, visibly suspended in that open
triangle right below her pussy where her thighs curve in.  A generous inch
of vaginal curtain flesh, painted silver, like the rest of her, as they
would have to be.

   On stage, those labia could get an interesting audience reaction.  Not
quite the sexless automaton look.  And this was not the professional
theatre, where the audiences would be anonymous, invisible in blackness,
hidden by the lighting from the gantry and the spots.  It would be a low
stage in a community hall, with seating starting feet from where the actors
would perform.  There were going to be a lot of people, some of whom we
knew, who would see those protruding labia, and lodge in their minds, my
wife's anatomy, the private becoming very public, irreversibly exposed.

   But Anne really did look amazing.  I was impressed.  So was my cock,
which was now pulsing in appreciation.  Which made me think that there
might be something else I would prefer instead of sipping wine, or while I
sipped, but as a prelude to the main event.  So as she moved with the same
robotic stiffness in her limbs as when she had first walked back in, to
pour the wine, I added to my previous answer.

   My robot wife had offered me more wine.  I had another request, or,
given that she was now mine to command, an instruction, to be obeyed.

   "Actually," I said, "When you've finished pouring, I'd like you to kneel
down and give me head."

   Robots are not supposed to smile, but Anne smiled.  She poured some
wine, stiffly but with calculated precision.  Set down the bottle.  Moved
in front of me.  Knelt on the floor.  Silver breasts betraying a softness
that could not be metallic by the way they swayed seductively, as her more
convincingly robotic silver arms reached out in angular movements all their
own, silver fingers opening my fly, slipping inside, easing out my already
rigid cock.

   She held its solidity, while staring up at me, her contact lenses
rendering her eyes impassive, blank, emotionless, and almost cold, but that
look conveyed her robot readiness to comply.  Then she stiffly leant
forwards, opened her silver lips, and took my cock head inside the softness
of her mouth.

   "Oh, fuck!" I heard myself sigh, at the exquisite feelings she was
inducing, and the amazing picture she presented, naked, silver, android,
yet deliciously sensual as she sucked my cock.

   It took some effort to keep focused on the fact that this was my wife
giving me such incredible head.  The contact lenses she was wearing defined
her as a robot.  No human has such black holes for their irises, or
metallic silver eye-balls.  Even her eyelids, and her lashes, were now
silver.  The effect was literally out of this world, an alien female, from
Stephen Speilberg, here to fuck the inhabitants of earth.

   Anne can give head like the best of them.  She can take it deep, can
press her nose and lips against my groin, relax her throat, and swallow
down the head, and rock herself back and forth, mouth fucking me, bringing
me to the point of no return.  She also knows just when that point will
come, and knows to stop in time.

   "You,...must,...  fuck,...  me,..  now," her robot voice instructed, as
she leaned back, revealing once again her silver breasts and nipple stubs.

   She rose from where she had been squatting, walked stiffly round the
sofa, went to the table that we use for formal dining, and leant across it,
legs parted wide.  I followed, my cock all too eager to slide into her
android cunt and fuck it rigid.

   Straight silver legs, forming an inverted vee, deliciously curved silver
buttock flesh, and slender back, waited subserviently for me to make use of
the cunt that was being offered so invitingly.  Her incredible silver labia
parted to the pressure of my cock head, while I gripped her by her pelvis,
to thrust on deeper, pulling her against me.  Her other hole winked back, a
dark star in a silver valley.  Whoever had held the spray can, painting
her, had done their job to perfection.  They obviously had enjoyed their
work.

   For just a moment, I pictured Anne, legs apart, while that bastard Mark
spray painted her freshly shaved pubis, and those protruding lips of labial
flesh, fingering them, pulling them, to ensure that every part was sliver
sprayed.  Then her turning, one leg raised onto a chair, while fucking Mark
knelt down and aimed the paint spray into her butt crack, assuming that it
had been him.  Of course it had.  As if he would have delegated so
pleasurable a task to any others in the group.

   But now was not the time to let my thoughts of him get in the way. 
Right then, I was fucking my first alien, and alien cunt is every bit as
good to fuck as that of any earthling.

   Her cunt was wet.  Slickly slippery to fuck.  Her movements and her
speech may have been robotic, but her cunt gave away just how human the
real woman was.  Or how similar to human anatomy, that of alien women is.
My cock head slid to the full depth of her in one easy thrust, as easily as
a thumb penetrating a generously buttered anal hole.  Vaginal muscles
twitched and played on it, giving the lie to any mechanical interior of
this android.  The outer layer might be of a robot, but underneath that
metallic layer, all was deliciously penetrable flesh and bone.

   I withdrew, thrust back inside, withdrew again, rammed home my cock
again, fucking my alien wife steadily for a several minutes, luxuriating in
how her cunt felt, the sensations in my cock head as I glided through her,
and the tightness of her vaginal muscles round my shaft.

   Anne, meanwhile, did not move a muscle.  Her butt flesh gave way each
time I thrust against it, but apart from that she was immobile.  Her torso
stayed exactly as it was, bent over the polished oak surface of our dining
table, her head not moving, her legs splayed, but motionless.  I paused, to
see if anything was wrong.

   "Please,..  do,..  not,..  stop...  I,..  was,..  enjoying,..  that.."

   Practising her role.

   I hoped that her role did not include Mark fucking her.  Not even
simulated.  I had met the guy at a previous performance that the group had
put on.  One of those full of themselves guys, who I had no doubt enjoyed
the power-rush of directing as much as he enjoyed acting.  Six foot
something, rakishly slender, jeans and white tee-shirt and tousled black
hair over days-old stubble on his jaw.

   Something about Anne's private performance, the compliant stillness of
her silver torso on our dining table, was a total turn on.  The blood flow
that causes an erection seemed to increase in pressure.  I felt my cockhead
bulge, my shaft become yet more solid.  I did exactly as robotic Anne had
asked of me, and resumed my fucking.

   My brain switched gear, however.  Imagining rehearsals in the private
room.  Just two of them.  My wife, naked with this guy, enunciating her
lines mechanically, programmed by the writer of the script to do just what
she was told.  Kneeling in front of her creator, the solitary scientist,
offering her mouth, and sucking on his cock until he came.  Robots do as is
required of them, no passion needed, no love or romance, nothing.  Tell
them what to do, and they comply.

   My wife is not a robot.  Unless robots can feel pain.  Or simulate the
sense of nerves reacting to a palm struck against a silver butt, and cry
out in a replicated scream.  Because Anne gasped, when I landed a stinging
smack against her butt flesh.  Punishment for taking on the role.  For
offering her body, which was not hers to give, but mine, to be an artifice
for others, an object in a pretentious playlet, a piece of scenery, a naked
prop, a compliant puppet, pandering to her director's whims.

   She cried out again, and shuddered, when I used the other hand, and
landed on real flesh, not metal, just painted, that was all, and the impact
of my palm against it, distending it, sending real sensations through her
spinal cord to her far too compliant brain, in punishment for having let
another man not only shave her smooth, but paint her too.

   My android wife deservedly punished, I then fucked her harder, rammed
her with each and every inch of human manhood, made her cry out in ecstasy
at being fucked the way she needed to relieve the pent up passion from the
photo-shoot, the nudity, the shaving, and the turning of her body to the
robotic colour it now was.

   She needed that release, as much I needed to nail her to that table-top,
and tell her she was mine.  She reverted to her real self, the woman being
fucked and brought to orgasm, the bitch on heat, scrabbling with her hands
at the sides of the table to hold on to something, anything, turning her
head to gasp and moan on either side, shuddering, her vaginal wall spasming
around my shaft, milking it until I came and emptied spurt upon spurt of
human semen into her android void.

   Nirvana lasted for an exquisite eternity that came slowly to an end, as
she lay quiet, her torso still, and I stood motionless, lodged deep, but
empty, hands on her butt, gazing down at her, my android wife.

   When finally, we both came to, and she began to move, just that small
amount required to ease the hardness of the table on her flesh, I eased
back out if her, tucked it away, and let her raise her torso, turn and face
me, her robot eyes directed into mine.

   She raised her arms around my neck, and pressed her body to me, silver
breasts against my shirt, and raised her silver lips to mine.  I held her.

   "That was amazing," she whispered just before we kissed each other.

   We were still kissing when she reached with one hand, fingering her
nape, and lifting off the skullcap from the back to let her hair fall free.

   "Oh God," she said.  "I love the way you fuck me."

   "You know that you're a teasing bitch," I said.

   "I know," she grinned.

   If robot eyes could laugh, they did.

   "You'll still come and watch the show?" she added.

   "Of course," I said.

   End of Part 1

   Last week, I described what happened once I knew my wife would be
performing as a robot in a play the would be put on by her amateur dramatic
group.  A naked robot, painted silver for a photoshoot, but with rehearsals
still underway, the actual performance still to come.  This follows on from
there...

   "Babe,.." Anne said, one evening after she got back from yet another
rehearsal for the show, "there's something Mark's suggested."

   "Okay?" I said, disinterested.

   I had come to terms with the fact of Anne performing naked.  There would
be people in the audience who would know her.  That was inevitable,
performing in our community hall, but anyone who goes to see a play where
one character is going to be virtually naked can hardly criticise the actor
for taking off her clothes.

   The poster, now being displayed in local shops and bars, as well as in
the hall's foyer and external notice boards, named the drama group, but
only Mark, as director, received a name check.  Not Anne, nor the cast of
the second playlet they were performing on the same night.  Forget them. 
The important part was that no one would know it was my wife performing
naked, in just body paint.

   Anne was pictured on the poster, of course.  In her glorious, silver
android form, but with two black, censor-like strips overprinted across her
nipple stubs and cunt, to hide the body parts that public posters should
not really show.  She was at least unrecognisable in her silver, robot
skullcap.  So at least I would not have to field comments from our
neighbours, or our friends.

   At the same time, I had thoroughly enjoyed fucking Anne the night she
had come home in body paint, following.  My cock still twitched each time I
thought of her like that.  Not many guys get to fuck an alien android, or
spew their semen into a living, breathing, man-made cunt.

   So the prospect of Anne on stage no longer concerned me all that much.
If anything, it turned me on.  With the added bonus that after the show, I
would get to fuck her for a second time in all her android glory, and slide
my cock a second time deep into her silver cunt.

   Which is a long of explaining why, yet again, I was only paying minimal
attention to my wife when she began to talk about some new idea for the
play.

   "So,.." my wife continued, "you know it's about relationships, and
humans and robots and feelings and that kind of thing."

   "Sure," I said, casually, not knowing where this was going to lead,
although 'lead', it turned out, was the operative word.

   "And,..  she continued, "the relationship is inevitably one sided.  I
mean the humans are the masters, and robots are under their control."

   "Until they get artificial intelligence," I joked, "and they start
taking over the world."

   "Yes, well," Anne ignored my comment, "the way it's been scripted, the
scientist has programmed the robot to be more than just a house servant,
but a kind of sex slave."

   She paused, giving me time to get worried about where this was going. 
The image flashed into my mind again, of a metallic female robot giving
head.  Acted on stage.  By Anne.

   I just waited this time, instead of interjecting.

   "So my character is supposed to wear a ring," Anne said.

   "Okay," I said, wondering why something so trivial as a ring would be an
issue.  "That's fine.  Is that all you wanted to check with me?"

   My wife looked down, not sure how to tell me what she really meant.

   "I mean,.." she said.  "Not,..  not on my finger,..  it's a kind of
fetish thing,..  that the scientist does,..  to the robot, I mean."

   I looked at her, thought about it, and drew a blank.

   "It's in the book," she added.  "The play's taken from a science fiction
novel.  Mark wants it to be true to the original."

   I still had no idea what she meant.

   "So what's in the book that makes it an issue?" I said.

   Instead of answering, she reached for her bag and pulled out a pretty
crumpled paperback, yellow cover, and handed it to me.

   The title was just "Silvia", by a Mannfrid Koch.  The illustration was
of a scientist in white coat and glasses, and the robot, obviously a
female, from the anatomy, all silver, like her name.

   "Okay," I said.  "And..?"

   "It's on page sixty-nine," Anne said.

   I flicked through, found the page, and started scanning.  Some kind of
discussion between the scientist and the robot, about who was in charge. 
How the scientist planned to make very clear that the robot was sub-human.
Something Roman slave-masters would have done.  The slave pierced, which
for a robot would be painless.  A ring set through a cock head, if the
slave was male, or through the labia,for female slaves.  It both denoted
slave-hood, and was practical, used to control the wearer, with a leash.

   I pictured it.  Naked on stage was one thing.  Naked, with a ring where
the author described this ring to be, was seriously extreme.

   "You're kidding!" I said.

   "We've talked it through," Anne said.  "Not just Mark and me.  The rest
of the group as well.  Everyone is for it.  They think it will convey the
nature of the relationship so much better than if the script were changed
to do without it."

   I thought about that for a moment.  There was no way I would win an
argument about artistic integrity.  Anne was going to be naked anyway. 
Whatever way they made it look like the robot was being fitted with a ring,
it would just be fake, and did not really matter all that much.  But I
still queried the whole concept.

   "And you signed up for this?" I asked.  "You knew?"

   "Well,..  sort of,..  I mean,..  I know it's daring,..  but the play's
amazing,..  so,.." her voice gradually petered off to what was nothing more
than an uncertain whisper.

   I swallowed, thinking about this ring, and how it would look onstage.

   "It'll certainly get you talked about," I said.  "Wearing something like
that."

   Silence, for a moment, before my wife came up with the whole scenario.

   "There's a problem," she said.  "We've tried to get it to work, but it
either hurts too much, or it just comes off."

   I thought about it.  With Anne's labia, there was plenty for a fake ring
to grip on to.  Something plastic, painted silver, that opened a little,
then stayed in place, should work fine.

   "I'd have thought a clip on of some kind," I said, realising that I was
now suggesting how to create the kind of effect that would look outrageous
on the stage.

   She hesitated.

   "That's what we've tried,.." she said.  "Except it never stays..., not
at the end.,,, where he..., I mean, there's this scene where,..  well...,
he uses it...".

   She hesitated again.  She was no longer looking me in the eye, or
anywhere near me.  Her head was turned to the side, and she was looking
down at the floor."

   "Uses it?" I asked.  "Meaning?"

   "He..., he walks her..., it..., the robot..."

   "Walks her?"

   "With a leash," she finally said.

   I looked at her, stunned.

   "Which is when it just falls off," she added.  "Which is why Mark
said..., he said it would have to be..., for real."

   "Fuck Mark!" I said.

   The ambiguity hit me like a hammer blow.  Maybe she already had.  Fucked
Mark, that is.  Maybe the rehearsals were for real, Anne practicing her
lines stark naked, compliant, subservient, proving it to him, by letting
him use her the way the so called scientist in that fucking book had done
his robot slave.

   "You haven't, have you?" I asked her, realising the significance of what
I had just said.  "Fucked him,..  I mean?"

   Silence, but she shook her head.

   "But you knew about this ring," I said, "I mean, right from the
start,... and that you 'd be naked,..  and that that meant,..  you knew
that all along?..  You did,..  didn't you."

   This time she nodded.  Then she raised her head, summoning the courage
to stand up for her artistic integrity, or something of that sort.

   "It has to be authentic," she said.  "Mark says it's what actresses do
all the time,...  I mean,..  it's not such a big thing any more,..  people
get piercings,..  actors do what the role requires,..  like Daniel Craig
working out to play Bond,..  or Demi Moore and Sigourney Weaver shaving
their heads."

   I looked at her.

   "And being naked, with a ring, in their local community hall," I said,
sarcastically.

   More silence.  A lot more.  Long enough to clear the table, stack the
dish washers, do the pans, switch on the news.  Not even Liz Truss making
her acceptance speech could break the mood, although she was even more
robotic than Anne had been when using her staccato voice and movements.

   Sex can break a mood.  Lust can smash most moods to smithereens.

   Teeth cleaning time again.  I looked side on at Anne while I was
brushing.  Too late to back out totally.  The posters were all up.  Tickets
being bought.  The show would definitely go on, the way shows do.  She
would be there, on stage, performing, naked, with her fucking ring.

   One side of my brain was fucking furious.  The other was thinking that,
actually, a ring set through her labia was quite a turn on.  They certainly
protrude enough.  Her labia, that is.  That leash that she had mentioned,
that was a turn on too.  Extreme, but a turn on just the same.  At least my
cock thought so.  That other, darker side of my male brain, was thinking so
as well.

   What got to me was that my wife had clearly already decided that she was
willing to have it done.  For art?  For Mark?  For both?  I wondered
exactly what kind of hold the guy had on her.  When I had asked her, if she
had let him fuck her, and she had given that silent shake of her head, had
that really been the truth?

   Maybe.

   Maybe not.

   My cock did not really seem to care.  If anything it just liked the
concept of her wearing a ring right there.

   Anne's breasts sway when she cleans her teeth.  The side to side motion
with the brush causing them to undulate so nicely.  I finished first, and
left her to it.  Sat on the bed.  Waited for the moment, when she came out
of the ensuite.

   "You are going over my knees," I said to her.  "Right now."

   **********

   We went together.  We had found the place online.  Made an appointment.
A female piercer, Katya.  Covered in tattoos.  Pierced septum, and her
ears, of course.  Other places too.  She was dressed in cut-off denim
shorts and crop top.  Her nipple studs showed through the top.  Her shorts
bared lower buttock curves, but any other piercing that she might have had
was hidden.

   Katya liked Anne's cunt.  Not sexually, but from a piercer's point of
view.  More labial flesh protruding meant it was easier to work on for the
piercing.  Knowing what was planned, the ring needing to be visible, to be
strong enough, and wide enough, to take the clip on fastening of a leash,
she told Anne that it would need to be a thicker ring than she would
normally start with, which meant a thicker needle, which would hurt.

   Katya also recommended placing it so that the upper curve would rest
against her clit, to stimulate it when the ring was moved.  Not just a
decoration, but for pleasure too, both just walking with it, and during
sex. Which made a lot of sense, so we agreed to it.  She then showed Anne
what she described as a segment ring.  With what looked like medical
pliers, she opened it, removing a small arc.  The natural spring in the
ring would retain the arc, she said, once it was replaced.

   Think of the largest coin you know of, and that was its circumference.
Its thickness was something wider than a pencil lead.  Maybe a nail, not a
six inch, but maybe a three or four.  I watched Anne swallow.  But it was
happening.  Anne followed Katya into an inner cubicle where the piercing
would be done.  I followed too, to hold Anne's hand.

   She knew what she was doing.  Impressive efficiency.  Talking casually,
like a dentist with a nervous patient, distracting them from thinking of
the drill, or in her case, the needle.  Black latex gloves for hygiene.  A
felt pen used to mark the pierce points.  Two of them, one in each labia.
Then some kind of numbing spray.  Then waiting, while it took effect,
desensitising vulnerable nerves.

   She swabbed both labia with alcohol.  Then Katya pressed a metal tube to
one side of one labia, which I realised was to receive the needle once it
was pushed through, and not allow the point prick some other part of Anne's
anatomy.  Anne squeezed tightly on my hand.  Then she screamed, and almost
doubled up, in pain.

   "FUCK!" Anne swore, loud enough for most of central London to hear.

   But the needle was right through, and as soon as Anne lay back, Katya
expertly eased the ring through the piercing she had just made.

   Then the same procedure a second time.  Katya pressed the receiving tube
to Anne's other labia.  This time, Anne nearly crushed the bones of my
hand, her grip vicelike in anticipation of the kind of pain she now knew
she would experience again.  She could have squeezed blood from a stone
with that grip.

   But no scream.  No doubling up.  Just a release of air, a gasp, as Katya
pushed the needle through.  Anne still held tightly as the ring was eased
through the piercing, following the blunt end of the needle so closely, the
hole could not close before the ring itself was all the way through.

   Then the pliers.  The missing arc of steel completing the ring.  Pliers
removed.  One ring set through two labia.  A little blood.  Not much.

   "It's done!" Katya smiled.  "You've been amazing!"

   Serious metal.  Hard steel.  No compromise.  The things that people do
for theatre, for the dramatic arts.

   "I'd recommend no sexual activity for at least two weeks," she said. 
"You can shower normally.  And use the bathroom as you usually would.  But
use saline liquid regularly to rinse the area.  It can take a few months
for the piercings to heal completely, but if you have no problem in the
next two weeks, it should be fine."

   Anne looked at me.  We had not discussed what we would do, once the play
had been performed.  The idea that she would retain the ring and let the
piercings heal completely had not occurred to either of us.  At least not
to me.  From the look on Anne's face, not to her either.

   She sat up tentatively, then stood up.  No need to dress.  Just to
straighten the skirt of her summer dress.  She had worn a thong to travel
to the studio, but the piercer had advised no underwear on her return.

   Outside, back in reception, we paid.  The piercer said she hoped the
play would go well.  We thanked her, and we left.

   Outside, Anne held my hand as we walked down the pavement.  She used a
stage whisper, so that no one near would hear her.

   "That fucking hurt like hell!" she said.

   A moment later, she added something else.

   "But she was right," she said, "about the way it rests against my clit.
That feels quite nice."

   **********

   I got there late, during the interval.  I had not wanted to sit through
the first playlet of the evening's programme.  The office worker's
breakdown.  There are enough of those around me where I work.  As the rest
of the audience filtered back to their seats I found my own reserved seat,
central to the stage, third row from the front.

   I was half expecting Bride of Frankenstein, but this was more the
Stepford Wives, except there was just one, and the fact that she was a
robot was clear right from the start.  The set was domestic, open plan,
hall, kitchen, diner, lounge, all in one.

   The curtain rose with my wife in front of a white wall, beside what we
call an American fridge, to reflect its size, but which Americans just call
a fridge, because they are all that size or bigger over there.  Silver
fridge, silver, naked, domestic robot, household items, side by side.

   Anne standing to attention, like a soldier in a silver, female army,
legs straight, feet touching, back erect, head up, arms at her sides, and
barely breathing, her chest appearing to be totally still, eyes closed,
mouth closed, except a silver soldier wears a uniform and she wore none,
other than the pair of three-inch silver heels that no serving soldier
would have worn.

   Even at the distance from the third row to where my wife was standing on
the stage, the details of her body were all too clear to see.  Her nipple
stubs were also at attention.  Her protruding labia were evident, the ring
set through them, there for all to see, the steel set through her silver
cunt, only the its colour against her silver painter groin camouflaging it
to those who did not know it would be there.

   Silence from the audience.  Only their own breathing could be heard. 
Then Mark appearing from a doorway, in his dressing gown, tall, slim, his
dark hair tousled from his bed.  Awakening Silvia, the way we wake Alexa.
Asking her for coffee, with two eggs on toast.

   Anne's eyes opened.  The contact lenses, giving her the android look.  A
spotlight slowly intensified its beam on her.  Gasps from the audience. 
The whites of her eyes were silver, the irises black holes, just as they
had been when she had sucked my cock and I had fucked her from behind and
smacked her butt, while she was bent across our dining table back at home.

   A murmur passed through the hall as the robot came to life, a cheery
'Good-morning, Henry', Alexa style.  Not a computer generated, grating
staccato.  Good diction, feminine, but something about the phrasing, the
programmed, comfortable friendliness, convincing us that this being really
was man-made, sophisticated, high tech, synthetic, latex skinned, and
micro-chipped inside.

   Then there was Anne's robotic way of moving as she put the kettle on,
got out the bread, prepared the cafetiere, cracked open eggs, and put them
on.  I was impressed.  My wife looked, and acted exactly like a robot maid,
teenage erotic fantasy made real, metallic silicone flesh covering the
hidden inner working parts.  As flexible as real skin.  As realistic too.
Just silver, instead of Caucasian, human white.

   Anne was incredibly daring to play the role stark naked, to have had her
body pierced, for reasons not yet fully clear, although I knew that, at
some point, she would be fastened with a leash.  To my surprise, I felt a
sense of pride replacing all my previous thoughts.

   The play moved on.  Anne, in her role as Silvia, acting as if she were a
living, walking Alexa, giving Mark, as Henry, the news, from Trump
considering a second run for president, to climate change.  More
conversational than Alexa, which more or less restricts itself to facts. 
Silvia was programmed to offer her opinions, discussing world events with
her creator.

   She busied herself around the apartment.  Dusting, plumping cushions,
straightening pictures, all done robotically, stiff legs and arms, torso
straight, head kept in line.  Mark drank and ate, and finally left for
work, and end of scene.

   Anne was back against the wall when the curtains parted for scene two.
Mark coming in.  Awakening her again.  Handing her a bag of groceries. 
Clearly she did not do the shopping for him.  But she put what he had
bought away.  She brought him wine.  She cooked.  They talked.

   Then the line that changed things.

   "You never think to bring me flowers?"

   Followed by existential clap-trap about who and what she really was. 
Interminable, dramatic nonsense about the nature of existence, of conscious
thought, of sentience.  Anne, or rather Silvia, pleading to be recognised
for the creature that she was.  Henry dismissive, scathing in his
put-downs, insisting she was nothing more than circuitry and artificial
limbs.  Describing her as pure automaton, the perfect, modern slave,
unquestioning, obedient, existing only to placate his whims.

   As if to prove it, another line, from Mark this time.

   "Bring me your leash," he said to her.

   Compliant, Anne went to the door, removing from a hook what until then
even I had failed to notice, a steel chain leash, which she then brought to
where he was still sitting casually in his chair.

   "Tell me what you are," he said to her, as he clipped it to the ring set
through her labia, so that it was attached directly to her cunt.

   You could have heard a pin drop.  Nudity on stage was one thing.  This
was another level of daring altogether.

   "A woman," Anne said to him.

   "A slave," he said, correcting her.

   "A woman," Anne repeated.  "Just like any woman.  Are they not slaves to
men as well?"

   Silence, as the audience took in what was, I guessed, the central
message of the play.

   Then Mark stood up.  He led her by the chain leash, to the front on the
stage, facing the audience, the two of them standing two feet part.  The
chain leash formed a low arc, from my wife's silver painted cunt, to Mark's
hand.  From where I sat, the ring was very obvious now, as were Anne's
labia.

   Everyone in front of me would know that this was real, that she was
pierced, and that the ring was genuinely set through her labia.  Further
back, they might be wondering, just how the leash was fixed to her.  But
from this close the stage it was very clear.

   "What are you?" Mark asked her a third time.

   "Every woman in the world," she said.

   "Then do what women do for men," he told her.

   The lighting had been standard stage lighting for an open plan
apartment, bright white.  It dimmed.  The turned to red.  Then spotlights
started circling, changing colours.  More like a nightclub than a home.

   The speakers suddenly roared to life with a 2010 hit, "I am not a
robot!", while the spots continued random circles, centred on both Anne and
Mark.  Mark turned first, went back to several feet behind the front edge
of the stage, Anne following, the leash swaying.  Mark stopped, his back
still to the audience.  Anne went around in front of him, and knelt.

   The rock music continued, "I am not a robot!", again and again.  Mark's
hands were at his groin.  What he was doing was left to the imagination. 
Anne's hands cupped his trousered butt.  What she was doing was also in the
audience's heads.  Or so I hoped.

   You read about actors doing sex scenes for real, actually fucking one
another underneath the sheets while being filmed.  All the while the music
was playing I was thinking that Anne could actually be really sucking on
Mark's cock, right there, on stage.  That would take some daring, but the
angles meant that no one in the audience would know.

   The applause, when the curtain closed over the fellatio scene, was
phenomenal.  The "I am not a Robot!" hit started playing all over again,
but this time the speakers also had the grunts and groans of male
ejaculation, audible over both the soundtrack and the applause. 
Pre-recoded.  Not for real.  Even if he were actually coming in Anne's
mouth, behind the curtain, they had no mikes to make it loud enough to
hear.

   "Oh my God," the woman on my left me exclaimed.  "Is that for real?"

   "That was pretty incredible!" This from the guy the other side of me.

   Each of them talking to their partners, but easily overheard, even with
the music blaring.

   The curtain opened.  Anne and Mark now both facing the audience.  Three
feet apart this time.  The leash still in Mark's, hand.  Still arcing to
Anne's groin.  Her clit ring.  The applause grew louder, the music fading.

   They bowed.  The applause kept on.  They bowed again.  People started
standing, still clapping.  They bowed a third time.  Then Mark led Anne off
stage, still by the leash.  The curtain closed.

   We got up from our seats.  The usual slow movement towards the exit
doors, as people followed one another along the rows of chairs and into the
aisles on either side.

   "How do they do that?" a guy behind me asked.

   "Prosthetics," his companion said.  "You can buy most things from
theatrical stores.  Noses, ears, whole faces, so why not private parts?"

   Interesting what you happen to overhear.  Good question too.  If
synthetic prosthetics could be made to look like real flesh, and pierced,
and stuck in place with some kind of theatrical glue, then why had Mark
suggested Anne should have her labia pierced, just for this role?  Some
kind of fetish thing?  Because he liked the idea of hooking on a leash for
real?

   **********

   The hall emptied fairly rapidly.  People with homes to go to. 
Backstage, there were bottles popping.  Cava, not champagne.  Much cheaper.
Mark was in his element, having directed both the plays, and acted in the
second, with all the actors and the stage crew celebrating how well both
the plays had gone.

   Robots tend not to drink champagne, or cava, or anything but oil, but
Anne had a glass in one hand, her leash in the other, still clipped to her
clit ring, Mark's arm round her shoulder.  She was still naked.  Smiling.
Laughing.  Then noticing that I was there, and looking shyly towards me,
easing Mark's hand from where it had been lazily dangling at her breast.

   She ducked from his arm, and came across to me, and smiled.

   "What did you think?" she asked.

   That was when I noticed her teeth.  Not white, but silver.  As were her
lips.

   "Put out your tongue," I said.

   She opened her mouth and put it out for me to see.  Silver.

   "The make up team did a pretty thorough job on you, then," I said.

   "It was a bit of a nightmare," she laughed.  "At least it was quick
drying.  But yes, it was cotton wool pads in my mouth to stop my lips from
sticking to my teeth, and I had to keep my mouth open until it dried."

   "Ready to go?" I asked.

   "We're just celebrating for a bit.  You can join us if you like."

   "I'll pass," I said.  "And I'd rather get you out of here."

   She looked at me for a moment, uncertain, torn between wanting to
celebrate the evening with her drama friends, or come with her husband.  At
least that was what I guessed was happening.  It was a robot looking up at
me, with silver eyes and black holes where her irises should be, metallic
mouth, silver-steel bare skull, albeit it with amazing breasts and a leash
still in her hand, fixed to her slave-cunt just below.  You cannot always
read a robot's computer brain.

   I took the decision from her hands.  Literally, not metaphorically.  The
leash.  Taking hold of it and tautening it, taking control.

   "Now," I added.

   She capitulated.  Not that she had too many options open to her, with
her clit-hood ring still held by the steel clip of the rope leash, my
pulling on it gentle, but insistent nonetheless.

   "Okay, just let me get my things," she said, conceding.

   "No need," I said.  "We'll pick them up tomorrow.  It's warm outside."

   You get mixed weather in July in England.  This was one of the balmy
nights.  I was just in jeans and a short sleeved shirt.  Anne would not
need anything to keep her warm.  To keep her covered, now that was
different.  Naked on stage was governed by artistic licence.  Naked outside
would be something else again.

   "You're serious?" she asked me.

   "I'm serious," I said.  "You wanted to go naked as a robot, so now
that's what you'll do."

   "Can I run to the car?" she asked me, giving in.

   "No," I said.  "We'll walk.  It's in the car park.  It's not that far."

   We walked.  Not with the leash.  Even I have limits.  I unclipped that
from Anne's cunt inside the community centre's entrance doors.  No one else
was there.  The audience had already left, while the drama group was still
celebrating in the dressing room.

   Anne walked normally.  Not her robot movements.  By my side, back
straight, head high, and hand in hand with me.  I was impressed with her.
Appearing on stage was one thing, outside, in car park lighting, crossing
tarmac, something else again.  Stark naked, just with silver body paint,
the lights reflecting from the sheen, she looked like something out of Star
Wars, or Trek, or science fiction of some kind.

   I thumbed my key fob to unlock the doors.  The tail lights flashed to
confirm.  I got there first, opening the door for her.  Not just because I
am a gentleman.  It was a rear door.  Not the passenger.

   "Robots travel in the back," I said.

   She did not argue.  All she wanted at that moment was to get in the car
and out of sight.

   "I'll be just a moment," I then told her, "I'll get your things."

   I closed the door and locked the car, with her inside.  Probably, there
was no need to lock the doors.  She was unlikely to get out again.  But I
wanted her exactly where she was, and had left the child-locks on. 
Meanwhile I headed back inside.

   Mark had taken liberties with my wife.  Serious liberties.  Persuading
her to play the role in the first place.  To play it naked, instead of in
some kind of a body suit, or leotard.  To have real piercings for the slave
aspect of the part, when prosthetics could have done the job.  Then to use
the leash, the way he had.  Serious liberties, with the woman that I love.

   Maybe another guy would just have called a halt to everything, way back
before the show was staged.  I had thought of that, of course.  But posters
had been printed, tickets bought, rehearsals started, and Anne had been
enthusiastic.  As for the leash, I had had no idea that it would be used
the way it was.  Anne did.  She had to have known.  But she had not said a
word.  But even without that scene with the leash attached to my wife's
cunt, I had known that once the play was over, I would be coming back for
Mark.

   Back in the dressing room, more champagne was being drunk.  I found
Anne's clothes and sports bag, and packed her stuff in the bag.  Then I
went and had a word with Mark.

   "Great show," I said.  "Have you just got a moment?"

   He followed me to the entrance hall.

   "What's it about?" he asked me when I turned.

   "Just that, Anne's my wife," I said.  "and you've gone that bit too
far."

   Said quietly, so that he started to defend himself, some stuff about the
dramatic arts, which I guess I rudely interrupted.

   I dropped the bag.  One step towards him.  Then my knee.  He was one of
those guys who stands with his feet apart to impress, like Superman.  He
had used the pose on stage.  Now, it left his groin exposed.  My knee
connected.

   The guy buckled.  I used my knee again.  This time the impact was taken
by his face.  He crumpled.  Started whimpering about his nose.  There was
definitely blood.  Whether it was broken, I could not tell.  I thought
about kicking him while he was down, but the guy was just not worth it.  I
left him there instead.

   **********

   "Is everything okay?" Anne asked, as I climbed into the car and started
the ignition.

   "All good," I said.  "I thought that you were amazing, by the way.  And
brave, to play the role completely naked, especially that last scene.  That
was something else, again."

   "You don't mind?" she asked me.  "I mean, they kept my name off the
programme.  So how many people will have known that it was me,...?"

   "I did have an idea," I told her, looking at her in the rear view
mirror, "for while you're still wearing the body paint."

   I turned onto dual carriageway.Towards central London.  Our house would
have been straight on.

   "I thought we were just going home?" she said.

   "Later," I reassured.  "First, it's my turn to have some fun.  You
wanted to be naked, so I thought you might enjoy more people seeing you
like this."

   We got to Leicester Square around ten thirty.  The entertainment centre
of the capital, packed with people until well gone midnight and beyond. 
Pedestrianised, of course, but I knew a side street where there would
likely be a parking space, not yet designated residents' only.

   I opened the door for Anne.  She climbed out, very naked, very
reluctant, but still, somehow, managing to stand proud.  I opened the
trunk. Took out a hoodie.  For modesty, of sorts.  She slipped it on.  It
skimmed her silver buttocks.  Hood up, it hid her metallic head.

   In the crowd people would just register a female in a grey hoodie, with
great legs, clad in silver tights, or something, not realised that those
legs were silver painted flesh, and that beneath the hoodie, she was naked,
and the silver paint was not just on her legs.

   I already had a two foot square of folded card, sprayed silver, stashed
in the back of the car, with exactly this in mind.  I held the card in one
hand, Anne's hand in the other, and walked her down the side street, and
out into the square itself, buzzing with people, talking, gawking, taking
selfies, eating fast food on the run, or just sitting, groups, couples,
singles, all ages, although that late, few kids, just the way I had
imagined it would be.

   There were buskers.  A guy with a guitar.  A girl with speakers and a
lap-top for her backing, and a voice that would have made Madonna envious.
Two statues, in their painted costumes, a guy, in a rumpled Charlie Chaplin
suit and battered bowler, with his cane, everything about him black, other
than his face, which was chalk white with make-up, and had the Chaplinesque
moustaches.  A Supergirl, costumed and caped, and posed ready to fly, one
arm pointing to the sky.  Each of them holding their poses while the crowds
strolled past them, then shifting positions, taking some by surprise, who
had thought that they were mannequins, not real.

   It amused me that we were standing in the crowd, waiting for Charlie
Chaplin and Supergirl to move, with no one seeming to be paying too much
attention to the female robot in the sliver hoodie right beside them.  Not
that the silver hoodie was staying on.

   I found a space, backing onto the central gardens, against the curved,
low wall, and opened up the folded cardboard square.  Unfolded, it was now
a four-foot square of silver, not exactly a stage, but large enough to
define itself as a performance area for what I had in mind.

   "Okay, babe," I said, turning to my wife.  "If Charlie Chaplin and
Supergirl can pose like that, then so can you.  Time to take off the
hoodie."

   I sensed Anne freeze, which was ironic.  That was exactly what she would
be doing, but naked, and on the makeshift silver podium I had just put down
for her.  Freeze-framing her body, statue-like, while people did the same
as with the others, tried to work out whether the silver female robot might
be real.

   She looked up, maybe nervously, but when you are wearing silver contact
lenses with black irises, facial expressions are not so easily conveyed.

   "I,...  I can't,..." she started.

   I took her by the hand and walked her to the centre of the square,
pavement platform.  Then I lifted the bottom hem of the hoodie, drawing it
up her body, baring her butt, and her cunt, then her waist and her breasts,
and she gave in by raising her arms so that I could slide it right over her
silver, skull-like head.

   "Yes, you can," I said.  "You've got until mid-night."

   She started with the sleeping robot pose, the one that she had done on
stage at the beginning of the play, standing erect, arms by her sides, head
up, eyes closed.  Maybe because it was the easiest pose to do.  Maybe
because closing her eyes meant shutting out the crowd, and the location,
the busiest night-time tourist spot in London.

   I backed off.  Human statues are not enhanced by having their assistants
standing close.  Not far, of course.  The nearest bin.  Which was where I
put the hoodie.  Primark.  Seven pounds.  It did not matter.  What mattered
was the Anne was naked, here in Leicester Square, and she was going to stay
that way.

   She held the pose.  Domestic robot, waiting to be woken.  Her breathing
now so shallow that her rib-cage barely moved, her breasts rising only
fractionally, and so slowly, that only watching closely would you see them
move at all.

   Night-time London is not dark.  As if to liven up the street lights,
Leicester Square has more neon than any shopping street, except maybe, its
neighbour, Piccadilly.  Reflected light of all colours glistened on the
silver surfaces of Anne's naked body.  She looked incredible.

   I smiled to myself.  It was a neat form of retribution, a punishment of
sorts.  She had decided, without asking me, not properly, how I would feel
if she were to play the role of naked, female robot, where we both were
known.  Now she could spend some time, still in the role, where anyone and
everyone could get up close and see her silver alter-ego, right down to the
intimacy of the piercing, with the ring set through her labia, and with no
escape route from the cardboard stage that she was on.

   People paused, as I had known they would.  They stood and looked.  They
waited, for some movement, more than her shallow breathing, but for a good
ten minutes, she stood stock still.  Some dropped coins onto the cardboard.
Buskers busk for money after all.

   Then she moved.

   Maybe she had thought about it.  Ten minutes of immobility had given her
time to decide how best to deal with her new, unexpected role.  She had
practiced how to wake up, when Mark had summoned 'Silvia'.  She had
perfected her robot walk for the play, the stiff limbed movements, the
clockwork turning of her head.

   She came to life.  Her eyes first.  Opening them wide.  Not looking
round.  Just staring straight ahead.  Her right arm next.  Bending it to an
exact ninety degrees.  Keeping her hand flat, thumb in line with fingers.
Robots only bend their fingers when they use them.  Her left arm next.

   Then her body.  Twisting at the waist.  Slowly, as if a clockwork motor
had engaged.  Keeping her arms locked in that right angle position. 
Holding the pose, looking to the right.  Then turning back and round to the
left, the same mechanically controlled rotation of her waist.  Her legs
unmoving.  Her head kept steady on her turning shoulders.

   People watched.  Fascinated.  Some exchanging looks with one another,
then back to Anne, smiles on their faces.  I was smiling too.  Her
performance was impressive.

   She turned to face directly forwards again.  Raised one leg, knee to
groin height.  Lowered in.  Then the other.  As if she were testing out her
limbs.  Making sure they worked as they had been designed too, and were
lubricated well enough for use.

   Then standing stock still again.  Arms still at right angles.  Eyes
still open, but unmoving.  Unseeing.  Registering nothing.  Just there. 
Available when needed.  Another statue.  Breathing imperceptible.

   Had she simply held that pose, then wakened every few minutes, used her
limbs, then switched off again, I would have been more than satisfied with
her.  She could easily have spent the hour or so until midnight doing no
more than that, and just her being bold and brave enough to play her robot
role in public, would have seriously impressed.

   She did look amazing.  I loved the way that, even painted silver, you
could still distinguish her areoles from the fullness of her breasts, how
the finish was not quite smooth, but softly crinkled around her nipple
stubs.  I loved the way her labia protruded, silver, with the ring set
through them, the lower arc resting on them, and wished that I had brought
the chain leash from the car, to use to walk her back when we were done.

   What Anne told me later was that once I had removed her hoodie, she had
loved the fact that she was naked.  She would never had dared to do what
she was doing, but having been pushed into it, she found it felt amazing.
She could sense her nipple stubs reacting to the warm evening air, and her
clit responding to its exposure, and to the touch of the ring that she was
wearing there.

   In fact, just walking from the car had been a turn on.  Wearing
knickers, or a thong, the ring was held against her, and barely moved when
she walked, but, naked underneath the hoodie, its weight meant that it
bounced gently against her, nudging her clit and sending incredible
sensations through it.

   Not that I knew this at the time.  I just watched, fascinated, as my
robot wife came to life again, this time stepping off her cardboard podium,
and robot-walking into the crowd.  She stopped, robot turned, and started
walking again, straight past where I was standing, eyes focussed directly
ahead.

   Anne really had perfected her walk.  Now her fore-arms were angled down,
her hands still stiffly straight.  She raised each leg higher than normal
walking, before stepping forwards, all in slow motion.  She was still
wearing the silver heels she had worn on stage, but nothing else.  Yet she
continued in a straight line, fifty feet past where I had been standing. 
Stopped.  Turned again, and started down the next side of the Square,
people making way for her, but fascinated at the naked robot passing them.

   I followed, casually of course, and watched as she robot walked her way
past Supergirl and right up to Charlie Chaplin, stopping only a foot from
where he was in statue pose, cane bent, like in the silhouette photos.  She
angled her head to stare right at him.  Then statue posed herself.

   Chaplin stayed exactly as he was, except for his eyes.  They took in
what he was seeing, naked, silver painted, but living, breathing, female
flesh.  Phone cameras flashed, inevitably.  This was something you do not
see every day in Leicester Square, or anywhere.  Then Chaplin moved.

   The standard routine for living statues was to stay stock still, then,
without a hint that it would happen, change the stance, and freeze in a new
pose.  Maybe smile, or wink, before resuming the immobile statue
masquerade. Chaplin varied it.  He stepped forward, put his arms around my
wife, and with both hands, held her butt, the cane now dangling from his
wrist.

   He froze again, the grin on his face as fixed as his fingers, where they
were squeezing my wife's buttock flesh.  Clever improvisation.  Sexy, too.
Anne's breasts now pressed against Chaplin's shabby jacket.  But she did
not move.  Chaplin was holding a robot statue, whose breasts and butt just
happened to be soft enough to give a little with his embrace.

   More camera phones flashing, as people took their photographic
souvenirs.

   Not that Chaplin was finished.  He held the pose with Anne for several
minutes, then whispered something her, and a moment later they both moved
at once.  He let go of her, went to one side, while Anne leaned forwards.
Chaplin slow motion caned her butt, stopping as the thin stick touched her
there, and statue posing in that stance.

   This time there was laughter, a little ripple of applause, and then more
flash photography.  To my surprise, two police officers worked their way
into the crowd to see what the attraction was, grinned when they saw, and
left Chaplin and my wife to do their thing, without a hint of concern that
Anne was naked.  A rare bit of leniency from the law.

   Anne moved first.  She had been leaning forwards, a difficult position
to hold.  But instead of standing straight again, she bent forwards even
further.  As well as amateur dramatics, she does yoga, and can bend at the
waist to touch the floor with palms flat.  Not wearing heels, but she did
the equivalent instead.  Parting her legs, she bent low enough to grip her
ankles.

   Of course, in that position, her butt was beautifully displayed, perfect
cheeks, anus, protruding labia, and steel ring, all exposed and deliciously
visible from behind.  Her anus has been spray painted like the rest of her.
Even where her labia had parted, the inner flesh was silver.  Mark had
obviously enjoyed himself.  More than was needed for the play.

   Chaplin, meanwhile, raised his cane again.  This time not in slow
motion. He drew his arm back, then used the cane the way an old school
headmaster would have done, but freezing as it landed.  Anne barely
flinched.  If anything, I flinched more than she did.  She stayed bent
double, still holding her ankles, still exposing her butt and cunt, while
Chaplin stayed statue like, the cane against her buttocks, and yet more
photographs were taken by the crowd.

   It was Anne, taking up the bent over, doubled, ankle holding yoga pose
that made me realise just how much my wife was actually enjoying this.  She
was flaunting her body, her cunt, for everyone to see.  She was also acting
out as a submissive, which was what made me decide to leave her there, and
head back to the car.  Chaplin could pose with her a little longer.

   It only took five minutes, a fast walk to the side street, then another
fast walk back.  They were in a different setoff poses by the time that I
returned.  Anne was kneeling on the black rug that Chaplin was using as his
performance space, the child pose, from yoga, not just on her knees, but
bent forwards over her knees, her head down, forehead to the ground.

   Chaplin was beside her, one foot on her back, the cane in one hand, its
other end between my wife's buttocks.  Out of character.  Totally dominant.
But then a comic clown is higher up the pecking order than a robot. 
Perhaps not intellectually, but still.  My wife was being as submissive to
the guy as anyone could be.

   There was a good sized crowd around Anne and Chaplin, while, as I had
anticipated, Supergirl now had only a few people admiring her flying pose.
I went over to her, explaining who I was, and what I had in mind.  She did
not move a muscle, keeping her arms raised towards the sky, about to lift
off, but I could tell that she was thinking.

   "Okay, sure," she finally said.

   She came to life, stopped flying, and adopted a straight-forward,
standing, talking, pose, the way that Supergirl would look talking to any
member of the public.

   "You're sure she'll be okay with this?" she asked me.

   "I'm sure," I said.

   "Okay," she smiled, brushing back her long blonde hair, and taking the
leash that I had just collected from the car.

   Supergirl casually walked over to where Anne and Chaplin were now posing
side by side, Anne standing in sleeping robot pose, Chaplin back to his
standard, so often pictured, legs slightly bent, feet pointing out, cane
bent, pose, their dom-sub act now ended.  The rug was littered with coins.
An appreciative crowd, still admiring the two of them.

   "Anne-droid," Supergirl called to my wife.  "Here!  Now!"

   My wife is not quite average height.  Supergirl was taller.  Great
figure too, breasts pushing out against the 'S' logo on her costume.  Not
so much flesh on show, but good legs, emerging from her short red skirt. 
Robots may have reasonable mechanical strength, but Supergirl was bigger
and had super-strength.  Besides, robots are supposed to do as they are
told.

   She reacted superbly.  She turned her head the way a robot would, to see
who was now commanding her.  She would have seen the chain leash that
Supergirl was holding.  I sensed her eyes turn to me, then back to
Supergirl.  She started walking, the stage, robot walk, as she had been
instructed to.  Stopping directly in front of Supergirl.  Arms by her
sides, eyes open, ready to receive whatever further commands.

   "You'll come with me," Supergirl said.  "And you will let me fasten this
to you."

   "I..., will..., do..., as..., you..., wish...," Anne said.

   Supergirl did not hesitate.  She used the clip at the end of the chain
leash, kneeling on one leg to fasten it to the ring set through Anne's
labia.  Even from where I was standing, it was pretty clear that the ring
was not some kind of fake.  As Supergirl took hold of it, Anne's labia were
clearly being stretched, and once the leash was fixed to it, it swayed,
Anne's labia being pulled from one side to the other.

   "Fuck!" I heard a guy say to the woman he was with.  "That's for real?"

   She did not answer, but they both stared, as did the rest of the people
watching this, as Supergirl walked Anne to her own performance space,
demarcated by the red cape, identical to the one that she was wearing,
spread out on the Square's paving slabs for her to stand on.

   Anne followed, the leash arcing between Supergirl's hand and my wife's
cunt.  She stayed in role, robot walking, keeping pace with the longer
legged Kryptonian.  Once on the red fabric, they posed as if they had
already agreed how they would stand, Anne facing the crowd, which had
filtered across to see how this would play out, legs together, arms by her
side, head in line with her torso, while Supergirl stood legs apart, the
power pose, triumphant after taking control of the robot, chain leash in
her hand.

   That was when they resumed their role as statues, and when coins started
to be thrown down, onto the red cape.  More photos, of course.  This was
far too good a scene for any tourist to ignore.

   A moment later, Big Ben sounded.  Twelve peals of the celebrated bell.
Midnight in London.

   **********

   "Did you enjoy that?" she asked me, quietly, as we walked back to the
car.

   "Did you?" I asked her in return.

   She smiled.

   "Yes," she told me.  "Weirdly, it was fun."

   "We can always stay longer," I offered her.

   "It's fine," she said.  "That was enough exposure for one night."

   I led a silver alien from the Square, using the leash on her, of course.
We just walked between the people mingling there, as casually as had we
been dressed and leaving the theatre for home.  Anne walked normally, no
longer using the rigid, robotic style of walking she had mastered for the
play.  She seemed totally relaxed, and totally unconcerned about her
nakedness, or the ring that was so very obvious, set through her pierced
labia, or the chain that was attached to it, and was swaying as we walked.

   We took the side street back towards the car, and might have gone past
the various buildings without anything further happening, except for the
grunted cry that came from a set of steps leading to a rear entrance of
some kind.

   "Fucking hell!" we heard.  "What the fuck is that!"

   We both stopped, instinctively, turning to see who it was.

   Fifties, maybe sixties.  When you live on the street, I guess it ages
you.  Grey hair emerging from a woollen hat, straggly, unkempt beard.  In
spite of the mild temperature of the evening, a woolen jumper worn beneath
an anorak, loose trousers, well worn boots.  Sitting, but getting up to get
a closer look.

   Harmless.  Not drunk.  Just down and out.  Not exactly clean, but then,
if you sleep in shop door-fronts, the facilities are not there.

   "Fucking hell!" he repeated, coming towards us.  "Is she real?"

   We could have just walked on.  Instead we stood there.  He could get a
closer look, if that would make his night.

   He came right up to us, to Anne.  Not a tall guy.  Shorter than me.  An
inch taller than Anne in her silver heels, the only clothing she was
wearing, if shoes count as clothes.  He snorted.  He looked her up and
down. Snorted again.  Reached for her breast.  His hand roughened by
outdoor living, ingrained with dust and dirt from the streets.  Fondling
Anne's silver painted breast.

   "Nice!" he said, his hand moving to her other breast.

   Any other guy, in any other place, fondling my wife, and more violence
would have taken place.  I would have floored them, just like I had already
floored Nick.  But I held off.  Maybe because one guy a night is one more
than I really want to put back in their place.  Maybe because beating up a
homeless guy was not in my repertoire of things I like to do.  Maybe
because felt a bit of sympathy for him, guessing that the last time he had
touched a woman would have been some time ago.

   Besides, he was not touching her.  There was a coating on paint covering
her skin.  It was the paint that he was touching.  Not her actual body. 
Not her flesh.  Also, Anne was not objecting.  Maybe she felt the same as
me.  Sympathy for a homeless guy.  Not even when he thumb-and-fingered her
nipple stub, and played with it.  Maybe she liked it.  But she did not
complain.

   The guy grinned.  He started moving his hand lower.

   I was about to end it there, but Anne got in there first, using her
robot voice from the play.

   "You,...  are,...  not,...  author,...  ised,...  to,...  touch,..."

   It worked.  He backed off, hands up, palms towards her, acting
apologetically.  We walked on, reached our car, and climbed inside.  I then
drove a still naked star-woman back to our house, my hand resting on her
silver leg every so often, her knee at first, then higher up, then right at
her cunt, the edge of my little finger sensing the wetness that no real
robot would exude.

   We have a driveway, just long enough to park the car.  I got out first.
Opened our front door.  I thought that Anne might streak inside, wary of
our neighbours, even at that time of night.  Instead she just walked
normally, carrying her leash, unclipped by then, her silver body tinted
amber by the nearby streetlights.

   Inside, not a word was said.  We went upstairs, Anne first, her
exquisite silver rear undulating nicely several steps ahead.  Once in the
bedroom, she just knelt right by the bed, leaned over it, in silence, her
silver body contrasting with the pure white of our bedsheets, and she
stayed there, waiting, while I undressed.

   Penetrating her silver cunt, parting her silver labia, it felt like I
was about to fuck an alien.  Not a robot any more.  She was no longer
moving in that staccato fashion.  But she was not yet humanoid.  My hands
on her butt felt soft flesh beneath her silver skin.  Her cunt was wet, and
more than ready.  I slid inside her, and enjoyed the feel of warm flesh
welcoming my rampant cock, the so familiar tightness of her vaginal muscles
stretched round my shaft.

   Thinking about it later, I realised that by then she had been virtually
naked for more than six hours, from being painted silver for the play,
through the performance, at the after-curtain party, then driving into
London, putting on the different kind of show in Leicester Square, and
driving home again.  All of that had got to her.  Had been a turn on for
her.  Had made her wet, and longing to be fucked.

   Which could be why she reached behind her butt, clawing for my own,
using my pelvis to pull me deeper into her, while giving out a keening
moan.

   Aliens can swear.  She did.

   "Fuck!...  Oh Fuck!..  Fuck me,...  you fucking bastard,...  making
me,...  do that,..  just fuck me!"

   What the lady wants, even if she is a silver alien, the lady gets.  I
fucked her, hard.  No holding back.  No gentleness to start with.  No slow
build up.  Just ease out and ram back in, slamming into her, making her
silver butt flesh ripple with the impact, then pulling out again and
slamming in, repeatedly, good, solid, hard fucking, one hand on her back,
pressing her torso down on the bed, her arms still scrabbling at my hips,
but unable to get a hold on me, her head up, turning from side to side,
gasping, groaning, whimpering, then crying out, as a long awaited orgasm
racked through her, from cunt and clit to every silver atom of her body.

   I stopped.  There is something incredibly beautiful about a woman, your
own wife, even when she has become an alien from another galaxy, in the
throes of orgasm.  The complete and total loss of control.  The way it
ravages her body, send spasms through it, shuddering, bucking, quaking,
then slowly, as the raw intensity begins to ebb, the spasms becoming little
trembling shivers, and then tiny jerks and little ripples, until all is
still and calm.

   I waited in the stillness, my cock still rigid, still deep in her.  Then
I began again.  This time slowly, easing out of her, right to my cock tip,
allowing her sweet cunt to close, just nudging at her silver lips, then
easing back, reopening her, feeling those vaginal muscles stretch again,
feeling the remnant of her orgasm through the fluttering of those muscles
round my shaft.

   Slow and steady fucking can be just as good as hard and unforgiving. 
You can take your time to savour all of the exquisite sensations that slow
fucking gives.  The gentle grazing of wet inner flesh against the taut skin
of your distended cock head, with its million nerve endings, each
luxuriating in the touch of female flesh as you effortlessly glide in and
out of her.

   Anne mewed with delight, a cat's mew, the cat that had not quite got the
cream, but knew it would, the pussy that was being nicely fucked, that was
tightly filled with hard male flesh, that would, in time, be flooded with
the kind of cream that, had she really been a cat, would give her kittens.

   You can mate with an alien.  The anatomy of aliens is not so different
from that of humans.  Alien women possess tubes and ovaries and eggs that
are released and everything necessary to kick start life and carry the
unborn foetus while it grows and readies itself to live outside their body,
just as human woman do.  Flood an alien woman with your semen, and your
sperm will seek an egg to penetrate, with which to merge into a new and
independent being.

   Fucking my alien wife, I just enjoyed her silver body, the difference of
her painted flesh compared to blonde and white complexioned Anne.  I could
forgive her having let herself be persuaded into performing naked, into
being pierced, and wearing the ring set through her labia, that right now
was oscillating with each thrust of mine, playing against my cock, her
clit. I stroked her body as I fucked her, the texture of her different,
although the feel of cunt around my cock was just the same.

   What neither of us knew right then, was that we genuinely were mating,
that the semen that I spewed into her alien cunt contained dynamic sperm,
and that an egg was waiting.  We found out later, calculating back.  It was
that night that life was started, and nine months later, to the day, a
child was born, so blonde her hair is almost silver, white complexioned,
female, a gift from some distant star.
   We named her Sylvia.  The name made sense to us.